


the sound of settling

by middlecyclone



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 12:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2025705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlecyclone/pseuds/middlecyclone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regency AU. When Scott runs into a spot of financial trouble, Stiles immediately finds the most logical solution: they should get married, to access his inheritance. Things do not, however, turn out exactly as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sound of settling

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [Scott/Stiles Reversebang](http://scilesreversebang.tumblr.com) and based on [this](http://imriebelow.tumblr.com/post/92972484478) lovely, adorable piece of art from [imriebelow](http://imriebelow.tumblr.com).
> 
> Thanks to imriebelow for being the incredibly talented source of my inspiration, to the reversebang mods for being astoundingly tolerant of my aversion to deadlines, and to the ever-perfect [Sriya](http://peppermoonchilds.tumblr.com), for being a wonderful beta and for encouraging me to keep writing, even when I really did not want to. 
> 
> Title is obviously from [The Sound of Settling](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bnwu-dlGIyc) by Death Cab for Cutie, because I'm a horrifying cliché of a person.

It was a warm summer day, nearly ten years after the Stilinski family had moved into Netherfield Park, when Scott McCall appeared on Stiles’ doorstep.

Scott was, of course, Stiles’ closest friend, confidant, and partner-in-crime. He was an uncommonly kind young man, with a warm smile and a good heart. Therefore, him paying a visit to Netherfield, uninvited or not, was hardly an unusual circumstance, as he often dropped by for tea or dinner or games of chess. But this afternoon, rather than bursting with his typical happy energy, Scott seemed upset and out of sorts.

“Oh, hello,” Stiles said, in surprise, and grinned. “To what honor do I owe this visit?”

Scott merely smiled tightly and pushed past Stiles into the marble foyer of Netherfield, pacing back and forth in distress.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asked, frowning. “You seem worried, are you alright?“

“My family is going to lose our estate,” Scott blurted, and bit his bottom lip in embarrassed worry.

“Oh!” Stiles gaped, utterly shocked.

“Things have been difficult financially for some time,” Scott confessed, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “But Mother and I only realized exactly how unfortunate things have gotten today, when our solicitor visited.”

“Is it really so bad?” Stiles asked. He had known, of course, that his friend’s family was not as well-off as his own, but he had never seen any sign of their true struggles.

“Apparently so,” Scott sighed. “After that business with my father, it was one bad investment after another, and now there’s simply no money left. We can barely afford food, let alone upkeep and taxes on the house. I just don’t know what other options we have besides selling it.”

Stiles frowned. “If you need help with money,” he said earnestly, clasping his friend’s shoulder, “you know that I am always willing to help you in any way I can.”

“Not like this,” Scott said fervently, and ran his hands through his hair. “I appreciate the gesture, but I simply cannot accept your generosity in this case. It would be too much.”

Stiles sighed, and rolled his eyes. “Scott,” he said in exasperation, “You are my best friend in the entire world. I would move mountains for you if the situation arose; a bit of debt between friends is nothing of import. How much money do you need?”

“Too much,” Scott insisted, and named the figure.

There was a pause.

“Well,” Stiles said eventually, “that is somewhat of a more … significant figure than I anticipated. You were … not exaggerating.”

Scott’s face fell even further, something that Stiles had not thought was even possible, and he sat down dejectedly on the bottom step of the gracefully curving spiral staircase.

Stiles, guilt and empathy sitting in the bottom of his stomach like a heavy brick, sat down next to him.

“Well,” he said, “we will find another way, I’m sure of it.”

“It’s fine,” Scott sighed. “Even if you had the money, in any case there is no way I could ever have possibly accepted it. I should not have expected you to solve my problems for me, that was grossly unfair.”

Stiles smirked, and elbowed him playfully in the ribs. “Come on, Scott,” he said, “you are my best friend. My absolute best friend in the entire world. Your problems are my problems, after all, and vice versa. Actually, considering that traditionally things have been more vice versa than the other way around, I think it could easily be argued that I owe you one. Or five. Or twenty.”

“That,” Scott acknowledged, smiling wanly, “is very, very true.”

“Now,” Stiles said decisively, “let’s get down to business. Logically, we should be able to solve this. Surely there must be some hidden assets somewhere you can sell instead of the estate. Some horses tucked in a back stable, perhaps? A house in London? Some family jewels you conveniently found in the attic last week?”

“We have nothing, Stiles,” Scott told him firmly. “I’ve gone over and over everything, once, twice, a third time; with the solicitor and with my mother and on my own. There is no secret stash of gold buried in the gardens and no mysterious relative who is going to die and leave us everything and just, in general, there is no way out.”

Stiles opened his mouth to make another joking suggestion, but then he caught sight of Scott’s face, of his suspiciously shiny eyes, and thought better of himself. “Well,” he said, gripping Scott’s hand tightly, “Then you and your mother must come and live here with Father and I at Netherfield.”

“Oh,” Scott said, startled, “we simply couldn’t accept that kind of generosity—“

“Nonsense,” Stiles said, “I am not offering you a choice. If you lose your home, then we will create you a new home, here. It’s that simple.”

Scott looked at him, and smiled, and wrapped his arms around Stiles’ neck, burying his face in Stiles’ shoulder. “You are the best friend in the whole world,” he said, voice muffled by the fabric of Stiles’ waistcoat.

“Aren’t I just,” Stiles said airily, and slung an arm around Scott’s shoulder until the two of them were more-or-less just one large tangle of gangly limbs. 

They sat in comfortable silence like that for a while. Stiles could feel his friend’s heart beating, could feel the warmth radiating out through his worn silk waistcoat, could feel Scott’s chest rise and fall with every breath. The moment felt unique, precious, tinged with worry and sadness, obviously, but with hope as well. Some indescribable emotion twisted in Stiles’ stomach and he sighed, feeling the tension melt out of Scott’s shoulders and into his own. He wanted to take these strange, perfect seconds and hide them away somewhere safe, encase them in glass like a snow-globe and return to them whenever he wanted.

But that, of course, would have been impossible. Eventually, Scott extracted himself from Stiles’ grip and stood up. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, “for everything, Stiles, but I really must be getting back to my mother.”

“It was nothing,” Stiles said dismissively,” really. I only wish I could have actually helped. If only I had access to my inheritance, then maybe I would be able to—“

Stiles froze.

“Yes?” Scott prompted, after Stiles had spent a good half-minute staring into space with a dazed expression on his face.

“If I had access to the inheritance from my mother,” he explained slowly, “then I would have more than enough money to pay off the debts and let you keep the house.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“That,” Scott noted carefully, with a glimmer of hope in his eyes, “would be very helpful.”

It was then that Stiles grimaced. “Yes, well, that would be if I had access. Which I unfortunately, currently do not. I can only collect the inheritance after I’ve married.”

“So it’s not quite that helpful,” Scott corrected. “Unless you’ve been courting someone secretly, without telling me?”

Stiles laughed. “As if I could keep a secret like that from you. But no,” he said, sobering, “You’re right. The inheritance, large as it may be, does us no good unless we can actually access it. And, tragically, I have no romantic prospects in the near future.”

Scott smiled at him, soft and understanding. “It was a wonderful thought,” he said, and pulled Stiles in for a hug.

Which was when Stiles had an idea.

“Oh my God, Scott,” he said, directly into his friend’s ear, “we should get married.”

Scott froze. “I’m sorry,” he spluttered, “what?”

Stiles frowned, and pulled back. “I said, we should get married. Was I not loud enough? I mean, I rather shouted right into your ear, I’m sorry about that—“

“I heard you just fine,” Scott said, wide-eyed. “It was actually comprehending your words that I was having a bit of trouble with. I repeat, what?”

“Let’s get married,” Stiles said happily, and put his hands on Scott’s shoulders and stared directly into his eyes, beaming with self-satisfied delight. “Let’s get married, and then I can get the money from my mother’s inheritance to pay for you and your mother’s estate. And then the estate will be legally half mine, anyway, so it won’t be charity. It will be taking care of my own. And it will be perfect.”

“But—Stiles,” Scott said helplessly, “Why on earth would you want to marry me?”

Stiles just stared at him blankly. “Scott,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “you’re my best friend. I have said it literally eight times today. I would do anything for you.”

Scott sighed. “But you shouldn’t have to be stuck with marrying me,” he explained. “You should, I don’t know, be able to marry someone because you want to, not so my mother and I don’t lose our estate.”

“But I want to marry _you_ ,” Stiles said decisively.

Scott frowned, thinking.

“Look,” Stiles continued, “Being married to you would not be awful. It would, in fact, be the opposite of awful.”

Scott stared at him, eyes huge. Stiles just grinned.

“You know the old saying,” he shrugged. “’Marry your best friend,’ and all that. Well, you’re my best friend.”

“I don’t think that’s what that saying is about,” Scott frowned, and Stiles stepped closer.

“Look,” he said roughly, “You need help. I can help you. I want to help you. I need to help you. Please, Scott, for me. Let me do this.”

Stiles was standing so close to Scott that he could hear his shallow breathing quicken, could see the pupils of his uncertain dark-brown eyes dilate, could feel the heat radiating off of his skin. Stiles reached a hand up and, tentatively, touched a hand to Scott’s face.

Scott’s breathing sped up even further, and Stiles wrapped his hand around Scott’s jaw, pressed a thumb to the very center of Scott’s bottom lip, feeling the warm soft skin underneath the pads of his fingertips. He leaned in closer, and kissed Scott decisively, careful and chaste and excruciatingly slow, his hand sliding from Scott’s face around to tangle his fingers in Scott’s hair.

Scott kisses him back, equally chaste and sweet and lingering, and then pulled back, staring at Stiles searchingly.

“You kissed me,” he said accusingly.

“That I did,” Stiles agreed, voice just the tiniest bit hoarse.

“Why?”

“Because,” Stiles smirked, “now it would be the height of impropriety to turn me down again.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “That is not even slightly true, and you know that perfectly well.”

Face growing serious, Stiles placed a hand on Scott’s lower arm, gently curling around his delicate wrist and sliding up his shirtsleeve. “This fixes everything,” he said, with more sincerity than he had thought it was possible to muster. “I get married, I inherit my mother’s money. I use that money to pay off your debts and let you keep your estate – which, I might remind you, I love nearly as much as my own house. I acquire an alarming amount of money, a new home, and I get to officially belong to a family I have considered my own nearly my entire life. And all I have to do is marry you.”

Stiles got down onto one knee, still holding Scott’s wrist, looking up at him with all the pleading and devotion he could summon. “Scott McCall,” he said earnestly, “Will you do me the immense honor of becoming my lawfully wedded husband?”

Scott bit his lip, sighed, and nodded, fighting back a grin.

Stiles didn’t even try to conceal his face-splittingly wide smile, leaping to his feet and spinning Scott around in a clumsy approximation of a waltz. “This shall be excellent,” he told Scott fervently. “You will not regret this, I promise.”

Scott beamed, for the first time today, and it lit up his whole face like the sun peeking out from behind the clouds. “You’re right,” Scott said delightedly. “Stiles, this is … above and beyond. Just incredible. I –“

Stiles just grinned back at him. “Thank you,” he said. “Because … well. Yes.”

Scott leaned in and scooped Stiles up in a tight hug, lifting him off the ground a little bit with the force of his joy.

“Oof,” Stiles wheezed. “Not that I don’t appreciate this, but …”

“Oh! I apologize!” Scott said, and set Stiles back down. He straightened his waistcoat back into place with a slightly reddening face, and then he straightened Stiles’ collar for him as well, fingers lingering slightly on his friend’s neck. Stiles swallowed, feeling the light brush of Scott’s hand over his collarbones, not sure how to react. Every moment longer that they stood in this room felt like an eternity, strange precious seconds crystalizing into fixed points in time. Stiles could feel something strange and crucial happening in this exact moment, with Scott’s hand tucked beneath the collar of his shirt and Scott’s eyes staring directly into his own and Scott’s kiss-swollen lips mere inches from his own.

Stiles just wasn’t sure exactly what to make of it, until suddenly, with all the suddenness and surety of a key turning in a lock, his mind jolted to a sudden conclusion.

He opened his mouth, unsure of what words were going to come out of mouth, but knowing that he had to say something right then. 

But before he could string a full sentence together, “I must speak with my mother,” Scott blurted suddenly, and stepped back, and then almost ran out the main entrance to Stiles’ estate. The front door slammed shut behind him with a resounding booming noise, and the precious sanctity of the moments before was burst like a soap bubble, ephemeral and now lost forever.

It was silent and empty in the main hall after Scott left.

Stiles sat down on the bottom step of the staircase, heavily, collapsing downward like a marionette with the strings cut. He stared at the toes of his neatly shined shoes and sighed, the pit of his stomach a knot of anxious tension and worry; half excitement, half regret.

Because what Stiles had realized a few seconds ago was that he was truly and deeply in love with his best friend. Deeply in love with Scott, who was now under the impression that they had just entered into a purely platonic marriage contract for financial reasons only. Stiles had lied to Scott, however accidentally; he had coerced him into this arrangement under false premises – or at least, under incomplete information.

Stiles would be living a lie of a life. He would be so close to the one thing he had just realized he truly wanted – and yet, because of the circumstances he had just set up for himself, he would spend day in and day out constructing this fake marriage while knowing there was no hope of creating an actual one.

It would be, more or less, his own personal hell, Stiles realized. And then he groaned and dropped his heads into his hands, crumpling in on himself in defeat. “I regret several things about my life,” he sighed to himself, voice strangely quiet in the cavernous room of the entry hall. “I honestly regret so many things.”  


* * *

“I regret so many things,” Lydia sighed, folding her arms primly as she stared at Stiles dripping all over the antique carpet in her parlor. “That time I agreed to go for a walk with Allison. Eating that fourth scone this morning. Not buying that copy of the _Principia Mathematica_ last week.

“Mostly, though,” she continued, “I regret befriending you, Stiles. Do you know why? It is because, rather than telling me the purpose behind your visit and letting me in on the good gossip, you just stand there all sodden and drip on the carpet looking forlorn. So please, Mr. Stilinski, tell me what exactly it is that is making you look like a kicked puppy, and sit down. Not in one of the nice chairs, though. You can take the ugly one in the corner.”

“Thank you, Lydia,” Stiles retorted drily, “Remind me again why I came to you for emotional support?”

“I really have no idea,” Lydia told him, “considering that over the course of our acquaintance I have been notorious for being utterly worthless when it comes to that sort of nonsense. Now sit, and the maid will bring in some tea so you don’t die of pneumonia. Not that I would mind if you perished, really, but Scott would probably be sad, and I do like Scott. Well, more than I like you, at any rate.”

“That’s actually why I came to talk to you,” Stiles confessed as he sat down on the rickety wooden chair in the corner. It made a foreboding creaking noise as he settled his weight onto the seat, and he winced in nervousness, but miraculously, it held. “Not about you not liking me, I knew that already. About Scott. Because Scott and I are a little bit … well, engaged, I suppose would be the word. Betrothed? Affianced, maybe? Well, you understand the gist of it. We are going to get married. To each other. Scott and I.”

Lydia stared at Stiles, face neutral, one eyebrow raised. Stiles stared at the floor.

“Actually,” Lydia said eventually, tone thoughtful, “I suppose that really isn’t so surprising, after all. You have been in love with him half your life. I suppose it just took this long to convince him he feels the same.”

“Well, that’s the problem,” Stiles blurted. “I didn’t actually realize I was in love with him until after I had already proposed.”

There was a brief pause, and then Lydia started giggling helplessly to herself while Stiles pouted in the corner. “It’s not funny,” he muttered petulantly.

“Oh, yes it is,” she snickered, “Because only both you and Scott would be emotionally obtuse enough to allow this kind of nonsense to happen.”

Stiles opened his mouth, offended, but Lydia waved a dismissive hand in his direction. “Forget the tea, Heather,” she called out the parlor door, presumably to the maid waiting there. “Mr. Stilinski and I will be needing whiskey. A lot of whiskey.”

“It’s barely noon,” Stiles said, scandalized, and then thought about it briefly. “Wait, never mind. Whiskey sounds perfect, thank God.”

Lydia smiled at him, a truly evil glint in her eye, and then tucked her legs up onto the settee next to her, somehow managing to do so without disarranging her elaborate skirts at all. “We, my good friend, are going to get fair to middling-ly drunk,” she informed him. “And then I am going to solve all your problems.”

Stiles blinked. “Well,” he sighed, “the first half of that sounds achievable.”

“That’s the fun half, anyway,” Lydia said. “Oh, look. Alcohol.”  


* * *

It was in this manner, therefore, that Stiles Stilinski found himself, three sheets to the wind and standing in a torrential downpour on Scott McCall’s front porch.

Lydia, having forced an uncountable number of delicate china teacups filled with whiskey into Stiles’ hands, had refused to accompany Stiles out into the storm, and instead was sitting in her carriage parked at the end of the McCall’s long gravel drive.

Stiles looked back over his shoulder, and saw her peeking out through the carriage window. She gave him a very enthusiastic gesture of encouragement, her cheeks pink from the whiskey, and Stiles smiled wanly back at her before turning to knock on Scott’s front door.

But before he had managed to so much as lift the heavy metal knocker, the door was yanked open, and Stiles nearly fell over the threshold onto the McCall’s floor. As it was, only Scott’s quick reflexes in grabbing Stiles by the shoulders allowed the young man to remain upright.

“Scott!” Stiles said, and smiled brightly as he looked up into his best friends dark eyes. “Hello!”

“Hello, Stiles,” Scott said, patiently disentangling himself from Stiles’ gangly limbs, “what brings you here, today?”

“We are engaged,” Stiles told him earnestly, tongue tripping over the words only a little bit.

“Yes, we are,” Scott replied indulgently, “and you’re drunk. Will you come inside, out of the rain?”

“I’m only the slightest bit tipsy,” Stiles retorted, lifting his chin defiantly, “and I shan’t come inside.”

Scott raised an amused eyebrow. “Oh, you shan’t? And whyever not?”

“Because we can’t be engaged anymore,” Stiles told him bluntly.

There was a long, long pause. A large quantity of rain dripped its way down the back of Stiles’ shirt, but he barely noticed. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach; while he had been trying to make things right, he sensed that this was not the proper way to accomplish this.

“Oh?” Scott said, eventually. His tone was ice cold, but Stiles could see the hurt deep in his eyes, see the way his jaw had tightened in disappointment. “And whyever not?”

“Because I’m in love with you,” Stiles blurted, and there was another pause, even longer this time.

“Wait,” Scott said, “Why should that mean we can’t get married? Isn’t that the point of marriage?”

Stiles sighed. “Yes, generally,” he admitted. “But see, I’m in love with you, and you’re not in love with me. It would be taking advantage. I would be trapping you into a marriage where you would be completely financially dependent upon me. I couldn’t keep lying to you like that, Scott. I’ve barely been able to keep it up for a few days, let  
alone an entire lifetime. All I want is for you to be happy.”

“And what about you?” Scott asked softly. “Don’t you want to be happy?”

Stiles laughed drily. “Well, of course,” he answered. “But if you’re happy, I’m happy. Of course, I’d love to be able to live with you and spend all my time with you and help you manage your estate. I would love it if … if you loved me. But I can’t … put that sort of pressure on you.”

“Stiles,” Scott said, just as softly as before, “You are a complete idiot.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles apologized, and then frowned. “Wait, what?”

Scott folded his arms in exasperation. “Haven’t you been paying attention at all, Stiles?”

Stiles blinked, confused. “Apparently not,” he said. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on, Stiles,” Scott sighed. His body language was still radiating annoyance, but the corners of his lips were curving up into the beginnings of an affectionate smile. “Why on earth would you think I don’t feel the same way about you?”

Stiles felt his heart lurch alarmingly in his chest with shock and something that felt alarmingly like hope. “You—“

“I’m in love with you, too, you complete and utter imbecile,” Scott snapped, but his eyes were soft and there was laughter in his voice. “Of course I am.”

Stiles laughed too, giddy with surprise and relief. “Well, how was I supposed to know?”

Scott stared at him, incredulous. “Stiles,” he said slowly, “You proposed to me, and I said yes. Was that not enough of a hint?”

“I thought that you thought that I was simply doing you a favor!” Stiles answered. “I thought that you were so financially desperate that agreeing to marry me was basically your only option! I thought I was extorting you into a loveless marriage!”

“First of all, I don’t think that’s what extortion is,” Scott said. “Second of all, there would have been other ways to save the estate. This was probably the best of the options, but it wasn’t the only one. I didn’t say yes to your proposal because I was backed into a corner, Stiles. I said yes because I wanted to get married to you.”

“Not ….platonic married?” Stiles asked. “Romantic married?”

“Yes!” Scott said. “My God. Did you really think that I would get married to you out of mere _friendship_?”

Stiles shrugged nervously. “Well. Yes? I mean, I would have done it. I would do anything for you.”

“And what about when we kissed? Did you think that was platonic?” Scott hissed, throwing his hands up in the air in irritation. “Did you think that was me, being locked into the grim, horrible future of a loveless marriage to you?”

“A little,” Stiles admitted. “Not – not the grim loveless future-locking. But it felt platonic at first, or at least – it felt like we were kissing because we were friends, even though the kissing didn’t feel like just friendship. And then it felt – like taking advantage. It didn’t feel like I was trapping you. It felt like I was lying.”

Scott stared at him, blank. Stiles bit his lip in anxiety.

“Look,” he said urgently, “let me explain. I am definitely in love with you. But I didn’t actually realize that until approximately ten minutes after I had already proposed marriage to you. I thought – I thought we’d concocted this purely businesslike arrangement, where we would just be best friends. I thought I would have to wake up every morning and pretend that I didn’t want to kiss you with every fiber of my being. And I was scared that you would find out that I wanted to kiss you, and think that because it would be my inheritance we’d be living off of, that you would feel -- I don’t know, obligated to reciprocate. And I couldn’t do that to you, and I especially couldn’t do that to myself.”

Scott stared at him. “Remember when you kissed me, and then I ran away?” he asked patiently.

Stiles frowned. “We are literally _actively_ having a conversation about that,” he said slowly, “so yes, I should certainly hope so.”

“You remembered the kiss,” Scott corrected, “but you seem to have forgotten that I ran away to go talk to my mother. Is this ringing any bells?”

Stiles blinked.

Scott continued, “I didn’t just leave for the hell of it. I left because, well, I had to go talk to my mother. About the fact that you had just proposed to me, and also about the fact that I was in love with my best friend. My best friend who, as it turns out,” he added, “seems to be a bit of a complete idiot.”

“Right,” Stiles said. “Sorry about that. So, wait, that’s definitely a yes on the being in love with me thing, then? I’m just making sure.”

“You are utterly impossible,” Scott growled in frustration, and then he stepped forward, grabbed Stiles by his collar, and wrenched his neck down to press their lips together into a furious kiss.

It was about as different a kiss from their first one as could possibly be imagined. While their first kiss was short, sweet, chaste, this kiss was positively full of impropriety – hot and slick, Scott’s tongue licking across Stiles’ teeth, his hands around Stiles’ back, waist, hips; his fingers grabbing at the soaked fabric of Stiles’ shirt.

Stiles didn’t even think, he just reacted, kissing back reflexively. His hands came up to twist in Scott’s hair, and he leaned into the kiss, leaned into Scott, letting Scott lick deeper into this mouth, letting Scott take control -- and then Scott broke the kiss, suddenly and without warning, and stepped back.

“And that?” he asked, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Did that feel platonic to you? Did that feel like the sort of thing one might do with, say, a friend or possibly an acquaintance?”

Stiles just stared at him, licked his kiss-swollen lips, and managed to say, “Well, perhaps not an acquaintance, per se,” hearing the rough desire in his own voice, and flushing with want and embarrassment.

“Good,” Scott said, decisive and breathing hard, “good.” He stepped forward again, as if to kiss Stiles again, but then hesitated, unsure.

Stiles looked at him with affection, at the way his hair was getting too long and curling haphazardly into the rumpled collar of his starched white shirt. He looked at Scott’s crooked jaw, his warm eyes, the curve of his cheekbones, and Stiles reached up and kissed him quickly once, twice, three times; gently but firmly, confident and purposeful in his every movement.

“You’re right,” Stiles told Scott. “I was being ridiculous.”

“You are always ridiculous,” Scott replied immediately.

“Worse than usual, then,” Stiles corrected. “I wasn’t just being ridiculous. I was being outright foolish, and I almost ruined both of our lives.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “As if I would allow that to happen,” he scoffed. “Don’t worry, Stiles. There was never any danger of me actually allowing you to break off our engagement.”

Stiles looked up at Scott then, at the love he saw in his friend’s eyes, at the laughter lines and his impossibly long lashes and his perfect, crooked jaw. “Oh,” he said helplessly, “Well, then.” And then he kissed Scott again, still chaste, but _desperate_ , clinging to Scott like a drowning man would to a lifeboat.

Because Stiles did feel a little bit like he was drowning, honestly, and not just because a fairly significant amount of rainwater was making its way up his nose. Drowning in love was, he thought to himself, an incredibly overdone metaphor, but an apt one nonetheless. He pulled away from Scott, both of them smiling radiantly, and then Stiles felt a tiny hand tap him on the shoulder. 

“All right,” Lydia said, huddled beneath a battered and oversized cloak she must have borrowed from one of her servants, “leave something for the wedding night, you two. Or, at least, I’m assuming you got your nonsense worked out, based on the degree to which it appears you are attempting to eat each others faces?”

“Yes,” Stiles said, “And also, rude, Lydia. Have some propriety.”

“Did you have propriety when your best friends tongue was in your mouth?” Lydia asked, eyes wide in mock innocence. “I think not.”

“Hello, Lydia,” Scott said sheepishly.

“Hello, Scott,” Lydia chirped, and elbowed Stiles aside to hug him tightly. “Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, Mr. McCall. I presume you have been informed that I will be planning your wedding?”

“Considering that I myself been informed of no such thing, no, he has not,” Stiles said, and then sighed defeatedly. “And I presume that there is no use in protesting?”

“No use whatsoever,” Lydia agreed, and them smiled warmly at him, the expression in her eyes happier and less guarded than usual. “Really, though, Stiles. I wish you the best.”

“Thank you,” said Stiles in return, and embraced her gently. “Really, Lydia. You are much better at emotional support than you let on.”

“All right, that’s enough of that,” she grumbled, twisting out of his grip, “you’re dripping all over my hair. Unacceptable.”

Scott laughed at that, and Stiles felt his heart twisting in his chest with fondness and delight. He grinned at Scott, slipping an arm over his shoulders, and enjoying the warmth of his friend’s – no, fiancée’s – skin through the layers of damp cotton.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Lydia interrupted tartly, “get back in the carriage, Stiles, this is getting absurd. It’s raining far too hard for this romantic nonsense.”

Stiles, somewhat reluctantly, allowed Lydia to tug him back to her carriage as she chattered about bridesmaids and flower arrangements, casting one last lovestruck look back at Scott over his shoulder as he went. The pair of them may have had possibly the least auspicious start imaginable to a marriage, but Stiles was sure that, one way or another, they would make it work perfectly from now on. They had each other, after all.


End file.
